by Brian Watko
The pandemic arrived in Annandale around this time last year, kicking off what seems like the longest year of our lives. The finish line may be in sight, but I have one last hurdle to jump before I’m in the clear. Today I am forced to break the College’s COVID guidelines to catch a flight from JFK to Florida. I have a long-standing appointment down in Orlando –– a date with destiny, if you will –– and I’m not sure if I will return. Scared as I am, I know what I must do. At midnight tonight, I will fight Goofy with a shovel, and I will win.
I was four years old when I first met him. My entire family had gone to DisneyWorld to celebrate my grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary, and I was beside myself with anticipation. I had brought my special autograph book with me, intending to collect signatures from my two favorite characters in the history of cinema: Woody from Toy Story and Jiminy Cricket. Two signatures: that was all I wanted. I was a small, bright-eyed fool, racing through the park to find his animated heroes. If only I had found them.
The horrid dog-man was standing by the entrance to Jungle Cruise; he wore the khakis and pith helmet of a colonialist. He looked my way with those droopy eyes and came sauntering over, chuckling in the back of his throat. Without a word, Goofy snatched up my autograph book and started to sign it. Just one page at first. Then another. And another. He wouldn’t stop signing. I tried to scream, to tell him to stop, but no sound came; I just stared at his giant gloved hand gliding across the pages. I could smell his breath: a mix of Doritos and stale beer.
After ten minutes of writing, he put the Pirates of the Caribbean-themed pen back in his vest pocket and handed me my book. I opened it to see what the damage was. Every single page was marked with his signature –– that hideous, spidery scrawl I still see in my dreams. Goofy. Your Pal, Goofy. Goofy Says Hi. I flew back home the next day, haunted by the sound of his pen skritch-scratching my dreams away.
I learned an important lesson that summer: DisneyWorld is not the happiest place on earth. Monsters live there –– monsters with floppy ears and devastating overbites. In the years that followed, I tried my best to forgive Goofy, or at least to forget about him. That all changed last March when I received a curious orange package postmarked Orlando. I don’t know why I opened it; I knew what I would find.
Inside were reams and reams of wrinkled loose-leaf paper covered with Goofy’s signature –– the wretched autograph of a killer, of a madman. On the three-hundredth and final page, a note: “Gawrsh, Brian, it’s been a long time! Hope you’re well!” Under that, in small, menacing letters: “Can’t wait to see you again, pal!”
I’ve spent the better part of a year planning my revenge. I will fly directly into the belly of the beast, where social distancing is optional and enemies are everywhere. I will fight that lumbering sociopath with a shovel, and, through the grace of God, I will be victorious. I will bury him in a shallow grave in an orange grove; they will not find him, and he will not be mourned.
This isn’t about me anymore. This isn’t just some deep-seated grudge that has festered uncontrollably for two decades. I will destroy Goofy to ensure no other child has to face what I faced. Wish me luck, comrades. Spring is here, and with it comes those words I’ve long yearned to say: the bloody dog is dead.
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